


A Martyred Dove

by Jaydee_Faire



Category: Final Fantasy Tactics
Genre: Blood, Bullying, F/M, Implied/Referenced Abortion, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Internalized Misogyny, Menstruation, Obsession, Pre-Canon, Voyeurism, Worship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:55:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27396817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaydee_Faire/pseuds/Jaydee_Faire
Summary: Young Argath Thadalfus is determined to catch a glimpse of the Princess when she visits the Marquis in Limberry.
Relationships: Argath Thadalfus/Ovelia Atkascha
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	A Martyred Dove

**Author's Note:**

> The warning for "underage" in this fic is because though there is no sexual contact (or contact at all) in the work, there are some obvious sexual themes. In addition, like my last Argath-centric fic, this fic is a little gross. 
> 
> Many thanks to CorpseBrigadier for the quick beta and the "wtf Argath" and to the resident Argathians of the fft chat ;)

Argath craned his neck, standing on his toes to see over the heads of the crowd at the edge of the cobbled lane.

He wished for a moment that he were a child again, small enough to be lifted up and sat upon his father's tall shoulders. But he was thirteen and a man now, too old to waste time yearning after childish things. He didn't quite have his father's height yet, though, so when the Princess's carriage passed and the crowd surged forward, exclaiming in awe and delight, he saw little more than a wall of backs topped with frantically waving flags and handkerchiefs. By the time he'd climbed atop a vendor's cart--shoving a smudgy-faced boy out of the way--the carriage had already turned the corner, winding its way up toward Limberry Castle. 

He did stay a while to watch the long train of servants and other assorted hangers-on, including the troop of knights on armored chocobo, each with a long white feather bobbing from his helmet. The roof of the vendor's cart creaked as Argath leaned forward hungrily, watching the click of long talons leaving gouges in the chalky layer of salt on the street, the sun's light jumping from gauntlet to breastplate to gorget to pauldron, the jut of a sword's sheath tipped in steel. 

It would be him someday, he promised himself. Someday soon, he would prove himself, and no one would dare push him to the sidelines again.

Argath was still small and slight enough to be mistaken for a page in the castle, especially if he slipped in through the kitchens and kept his eyes down. The smell of cooking food made his stomach twist with hunger, and on another day, he might have lingered to see if one of the cooks would take pity on him and sit him down with a bit of bread and cheese. He had something else in mind today.

That didn't mean that the plate of floury biscuits left unattended on a side table went unmolested, however.

When his father was still alive, he'd used what little influence he'd had--mostly with castle oldsters who recalled Argath's great-grandfather-- to let young Argath page for one of Marquis Elmdore's lesser viscounts. Argath had spent a year running learning the quickest paths through the chilly halls as he carried messages from one noble to another.

He hadn't often been called to serve the Marquis, but he knew where the man's quarters were, and knew too where the highest of the highborn would be housed if one should ever deign to visit. The gossip in the kitchens and the informal guardroom adjacent to it was that the Princess had arrived, yes, but she was weary from her long journey and had wished to rest and refresh herself before meeting with the Marquis. 

Argath passed the apartments of Limberry's assorted lords and ladies, trying to avoid the stares of the actual pages and servant staff. Perhaps cooks and guards too busy with the chaos visiting royalty brought wouldn't look askance at an unfamiliar face, but he would definitely be caught and thrown out if he lingered too long where someone more familiar with the castle's inhabitants could see him.

The hall outside the Marquis' door was crowded with guards and chaperones and ladies in waiting. Argath's steps slowed enough for him to catch some of the chatter-- _she won't eat? Has she taken ill? Oh, I see. Well, that's a sign of a healthy young lass, isn't it? Poor dear, run and fetch her a hot water bottle and we'll see if that doesn't ease her a bit_ \-- but he didn't dare stop and risk someone noticing him. 

Instead, he slipped down a narrow side path, a dark and enclosed place lined with small chutes where a noble could put their chamber pots or soiled clothing or broken crockery to be collected out of their sight. The Marquis had sometimes used his to dispose of empty wine bottles to hide how much he'd had to drink in a night. Argath had heard darker rumors of chamber pots full of bloodied instruments and the remains of an unmarried woman's unwanted child. 

Today, as he peeked into one dark little alcove after another, he found mostly plates of leftover food and wilted flowers in vases full of foul-smelling water. At the back of each alcove was a wooden sliding door that, if he were very careful and quiet, he could push aside for a glimpse into the room it belonged to. 

He ignored chutes full of gnawed-on turkey bones or sticky wine glasses, knowing that the Princess, a year younger than he, was a delicate sort whose prim manners and soft-spoken ways would never permit her to suck the gristle off of a bone or guzzle glass after glass of port. No, a Princess with a delicate palate and an unsettled belly would be offered lighter fare. 

He paused at a chute hiding a bit of soft cheese on a lovely piece of china, gingerly reaching over it to nudge the door aside. He heard the shuffling of fabric and a damp little sniff, and froze. 

"Now you just lay back, your Highness, there's nothing to be frightened of. Put this here, and when it's gone cool we'll come and give you a warm one."

A murmur in response, the wavering tones of someone trying their best to control their tears. 

"No, love, of course no one will be cross. All the women in the laundry will understand just what you're going through, I promise you that. Now I'll just take this and put it out of sight. Here are the others, when you're in need of a fresh one." 

Footsteps approached where Argath was crouched, and a shadow fell across the tiny gap of light surrounding the chute's door. He quickly ducked out of sight as the door was opened and something was shoved on top of the plate, sliding it nearly to the edge of the chute. Argath reached up and caught the plate before it could topple over, still holding his breath. A moment later, the door slid shut again and he exhaled silently, closing his eyes.

He waited as long as he dared, listening for more conversation. Someone would be coming soon to collect the detritus left by the nobles, and it wouldn't do to be caught here. But he was close now, too close to give up. He straightened up, gently pulling the plate and the woven wicker basket that had been carelessly tossed on top of it free of the alcove and setting them both aside. Then he reached forward again, scraping his fingernails against the little door until they found purchase enough to pull it aside.

Someone had pulled the curtains shut and the light in the bedroom was dim, but still brighter than the narrow hallway Argath was crouched in. Dark wood furniture with carved clawed feet decorated the space, with a plush rug to protect noble toes from freezing stone floors. A table near the window bore a silver tea service, and a single candle burned on a spindly round end table, filling the air with the scent of lavender.

And there, the bed, a huge, hulking thing that someone had thoughtfully shoved a footstool against so that a young Princess could more easily climb into it. Under a mound of eiderdowns and coverlets he caught a glimpse of a blond curl, snaking along white sheets and leading up to a round little shoulder. 

She lay with her back to him, hunched into herself. Argath breathed in deeply, pupils dilating as he took in each morsel of detail: the white linen kirtle, its scalloped collar dipping low in the back to expose the nape of her neck, the first bump of her spine. As he watched, she shifted to turn on her back, whimpering softly in pain. Locks of blonde hair tumbled; he saw one lovely shell of an ear, the flutter of eyelashes against a tear-streaked cheek.

Footsteps sounded suddenly at the end of the corridor--close and coming fast. Panicking, Argath shoved the plate and basket back into the alcove and stood up to run, then doubled back, thrusting his hand into the bottom of the basket and closing his fist around a stiffened scrap of cloth before he turned and fled. 

It wasn't until he arrived home again, out of breath with his shirt stuck to his back with sweat, that he stopped to look at his treasure. He stood just inside the door, panting, and slowly unclenched his fingers, watching a wadded cotton handkerchief bloom in his palm. He had just seen something dark at its center when he heard his mother talking with one of his aunts in the drawing room, and immediately hid it away again. 

His room had a latch on the door, but it had been broken for as long as he could remember. He shut it as quietly as he could, then shoved a chair against it, knowing that it wouldn't stop anyone from coming in but would at least give him some warning before they did. Then he did as he had done countless times before when he'd pilfered something sweet or shiny and wanted to enjoy it in secret: he climbed into bed, dragged the covers over his head, and then pulled the wrinkled handkerchief out of his pocket.

A square of white cloth, folded over and over again and then wadded into a bundle and discarded. A Princess' delicate handkerchief, to dab at her eyes when religious ecstasy made her overflow with emotion. But Argath recognized the texture of something made soft by many washings, scrubbed over and over with hot water and lye. And this cloth was plain, with no scallops or froths of lace or pricking of embroidery as would befit a Princess.

He unfolded it, running his fingertips over the stiff red-brown mark in the center. He knew the smell of blood, too, both from friendly rough-and-tumbles and from not so friendly gangs of young boys looking to prove themselves by hunting down traitors, or grandsons of traitors. He had wiped enough bloody noses off on enough shirtsleeves to know that blood dried to brown, not red, and made the cloth it stained stiffen like reed paper.

His mother had told him something, once, after he had come home laughing about one of the older girls sitting on an iron nail and not realizing it until hours later, when her friends rushed her, red-faced, into a washroom to change. "Unmarried women," she had said, "bleed. Once for each turn of the moon. The blood and pain are the trials we must face to prove ourselves worthy to marry and bear a man's children."

Laying in his bed, Argath brought the cloth close to his face, inhaling its musky scent and considering what his mother had said, about trials, about worthiness. Like the Princess, shivering in her darkened chambers, he would prove himself worthy. Even if blood must be spilled. Even if it must be his. Someday soon, he would show the world his true worth.

Reverently, pressed his lips to the cloth, to the evidence of Princess Ovelia's strength and fortitude. He tucked it into his shirt, where it would ride over his heart until the day that it stopped beating.

**Author's Note:**

> A two-second Google search didn't turn up any *official* Glabadosian creation myth/sexist explanation for menstruation, so I made one up. Also please understand that the misogynistic and slightly transphobic views of the people in this fic are not my own.
> 
> If you like my work, check out my carrd, which has links to secret places where you can read more of it! 
> 
> jaydeefaire.carrd.co


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